


The Way You See Me

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Lancelot handle battle and death in two different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way You See Me

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2008 and want to start uploading most of my fic here. This was written for cat_o_wen based on her prompt: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Whose eyes am I behind_  
>  I don’t recognize anything that I see  
> Whose skin is this design  
> I don’t want this to be the way that you see me

 

  
Arthur was praying again. He felt that lately that was all he ever did – and he hated it, for it meant that another knight had died. Or in this instance, two.

His lips moved soundlessly; the smell of incense and smoke and battle-worn gore filled his nostrils. He’d gone straight to the chapel as soon as they’d arrived back from the field, thanking Jols blankly as the squire took his white horse away. The Briton had squinted his eyes at Arthur, touched his shoulder, but hadn’t said anything. Once more Arthur had thanked God for the other man’s calming presence.

Not that he was calm now. Not in the least. His face was tight from dried tears and blood, his knees were on fire from having knelt on the stone floor for hours, his body was sore and dirty, and worst of all, his heart seemed to only want to beat when he forced it to.

_That_ was new. Usually Arthur had to pace or spar or trace a track in the floor of his quarters to keep up with his crazed emotions after any kind of battle. Not so now – all he could see, all he could think of – the sightless eyes of Percival and the decapitated body of Galehaut.

Lancelot hadn’t said a word to Arthur as they’d rode like the hounds of Hell were on their tails back to Badon. He had swung from his mount's back and, after flinging the reins to one of the stable boys, had stalked away from all of them, his rage evident in his stiff back and gait.

Arthur had watched him until he’d disappeared over a rise near the inner wall – he could almost see the springy curls of Lancelot’s hair vibrating as the other man tried to get away before the anger in him exploded on his fellow knights. Or Arthur.

But then again, there had never been a time that Lancelot had been afraid of Arthur, or afraid of spewing as much vitriol as possible from his mobile mouth. In fact, Arthur felt one of the only things he could do for Lancelot was to take the force of the other man’s wrath and redirect it. Usually into himself, but if Arthur could do that to spare his knight any more pain….

_Father, watch over my men and take them into your arms, so that they may know peace. Forgive Your humble servant for my failure to keep them safe, and allow their brothers the protection they need in order to go home once more._

His lips were dry and cracked from the hours spent outside – Arthur lifted a hand when, in his haze of prayer, he felt something drip onto his chin.

His laughter was both bright and desolate when his fingers came away coated in red.

Absently wiping the viscous stuff on his leathers, he shut his eyes and kept at it, his body hunched, his vision tunneling, his cuirass and hauberk and the rest of his armor weighing him slowly down.

When Lancelot found him, his forehead was touching the wooden step that led to the large, plain altar.

Without a word, the knight slid a hand under Arthur’s arm, hauled him to his nerve-dead feet, and grasped him by the edge of Arthur’s breastplate.

“ _My_ brothers. This is not my God, not my sanctuary, not my relief. Gods damn you to your eternal Hell for thinking you can make things right with _this_.”

He spat the words at Arthur, his face as crunched and as ravaged as Arthur’s. They faced each other, toe to toe – Lancelot’s tightly shaking hand never letting go of the blood spattered metal at Arthur’s neck.

“ _My_ men. My responsibility – just as you are – ”

The punch came fast and without warning.

Arthur’s head rocked back, the force and speed of the knight’s blow whistling past his ear in a weird imitation of a loosed arrow. His hand flew to his cheek; his lips gaped but once and then clamped shut. The other man was hardly breathing; his fingers at Arthur’s neck - _still there_ \- were ice cold and although his nostrils were flared, everything else about him was still as the grave.

Lancelot shoved Arthur away from him with sound erupting from his mouth not unlike the grating of a whetstone against his double blades; Arthur could imagine that sound in his sleep. It made his teeth ache.

The men stumbled away from one another – Arthur sprawled on an empty pew and Lancelot crouched down, his hand steadying him as his body tried to topple over.

“I am no man’s responsibility, save my own, Arthur.” His tone was brittle and cheap, as though spoken through glass – Arthur met his gaze despite his strong desire not to, and swore the dried tears that clung to Lancelot’s beard sparkled in the candlelight.

“Why do you speak to me thusly?” It was all Arthur could think of to say, even though he knew the answer.

A heartbeat – a growl from the Sarmatian’s throat – and Lancelot’s sinewy form was tackling Arthur’s broad frame. They went down in a heap of limbs, this time Arthur hitting back.

He was bigger and heavier – although Lancelot was persistent and had slender, strong fingers that could reach places that Arthur didn’t know could hurt like that.

Arthur managed to pin the other man down finally, the heavy pew he’d been sitting on knocking painfully into his side as they skidded across the floor to a stop. His heart had sped up; he figured if that was the only thing he got out of this – at least he was breathing, and his pulse was –

“Get off me.”

A knee to his kidney had Arthur capitulating, and Lancelot’s lean, coiled body was out from under him in a flash.

Fresh tears sprang unbidden down the Sarmatian’s face. Arthur watched him, and Lancelot’s open, wounded and _young_ expression gradually changed to one of guarded acceptance.

That was more agonizing than any punch.

Arthur stood creakily, and before he could say anything or reach out to Lancelot –

The door to the chapel banged against the wall; Arthur swallowed heavily and shut his eyes, still feeling the other man’s presence and his palpable pain. He always would.

He moved slowly to the step, and his knees protested as he once again knelt in supplication. His lip was still dripping blood, and he had a new bruise on his face.

_Father, please forgive Your humble servant. I ask only for peace for my men, protection for their lives, and …._

He opened his eyes, and looked up at the altar.

_…patience and love for Lancelot._

The door flapped behind him, but he ignored it.

~


End file.
